Check
by Sc00ter
Summary: CJ/Simon, CJ/Ron - On the anniversary of Simon's death, CJ visits his grave


I've always wanted to write Ron, and this has been sitting in my head, so I figured I'd try it out.  
  
Title: Check Author: Scooter Email: sekent_76@yahoo.com Rating: PG-13 Category: C.J.\Simon, slight CJ\Ron, bit of angst Disclaimer: Not mine. Please don't sue. Summary: On the anniversary of Simon's death, C.J. visits his grave. Spoilers: Through the end of Season 4 - given when Simon died and when Zoey's kidnapping took place, I think this happens about 2 weeks after "25". But the references to "25" will be vague - I don't want to write an ending to the cliffhanger. Archive: Please let me know where, and keep my name attached.  
  
The sky is just starting to be tinged with pink when she walks into the cemetery. It's quiet in the early evening, with just a few people scattered around. Mostly tourists, C.J. thinks - the tourists always seem more interested than mournful. For them, it's nothing more than another checkmark in the guidebook. Arlington Cemetery. Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Kennedy's Grave. Done, done, done. End of a mostly ordinary day.  
  
Of course, it's far from that for her, C.J. reflects, holding the roses tightly. She shivers slightly, remembering the cool rain in Times Square, as she sat on a bench, one year ago today, sobbing. Simon. So much has changed over the past year - over the past *month* - but the one constant is that Simon is still not there. And it's no less unfair now than it was a year ago.  
  
She knows the path to his grave by rote, now. At least once a month, she's made her way past the two large oak trees and the large weathered stone on the left, fourth row down, sixth stone in from the end.  
  
It's not until she reaches the fourth stone in that she notices him. Not really a surprise, she supposes. Ron worked with Simon for years, had the unenviable job of pulling her out of endless Shakespeare to narrate an equal tragedy. Of course he'd have come sometime today, and so would Jamie and Pam, and everyone else in the Secret Service who knew and worked with Simon. Of course they would.  
  
But she's still taken aback to see him and she stops short, scraping her shoe against a pebble, and that slight noise is enough to make Ron - always alert, aware of everything, prepared to respond in an instant - glance up. Noticing her, he rises from his crouch in front of Simon's grave and walks towards her. He's still holding some flowers; Simon is apparently not his only stop of the evening.  
  
C.J. speaks softly, slowly, respectful of the weight of their surroundings. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."  
  
"It's fine. I was just about to..." He glances down at the daffodils in his right hand. "I need to leave these for Molly." His expression darkens considerably. That wound is still fresh. He starts to walk past her. "So, I'll let you-"  
  
"Ron?" Her hand on his arm stills him. "If you don't mind, I mean if you have a few minutes," she glances up at him - he's tall, Simon was tall, Simon, Simon - "would you mind sitting with me?"  
  
He nods, and moves slowly back to the gravestone, squatting down with his toes on the ground and the backs of his legs resting on his heels. C.J. sits next to him, unconsciously mimicking his posture, and places the roses in front the stone, under Simon's name.  
  
There are many flowers. "A lot of people came to see him today." Ron nods and says nothing. C.J. continues, "I've noticed . whenever I come . there are always flowers."  
  
Ron sighs. "We don't forget, C.J. We're a fraternity, really. One of us goes down, and." he trails off, glancing at the daffodils destined for Molly O'Connor.  
  
"Yeah." There's nothing else she can say to that.  
  
They sit in silence for a few minutes, the pinks in the sky slowly turning to lavenders.  
  
"It's still not fair," C.J. says, finally.  
  
Ron turns to look at her, a slight weariness the only difference from his "on-duty", expressionless countenance. "No. It's not."  
  
"And it's never going to be."  
  
"No." He pauses, unsure of how much to say. "Until a few weeks ago, telling you that he was gone was the hardest thing I'd ever had to do in this job."  
  
This surprises her, and she glances up quickly. "More difficult than Rosslyn?"  
  
"Yes." Ron trails his hand lightly through the grass in front of the gravestone. "Rosslyn was . a job. We practice for that. You hear shots, you know exactly what to do. It's all reflexes, no time to think. Rosslyn, I was *prepared* for." He doesn't have to add that the Secret Service never trained him to tell loved ones that an agent was dead. Twice in the past year, he's had to do it, and it's been cement twisting in his stomach, pain and nausea pushing up against a ramrod straight posture and modulated tones.  
  
Of course, even that was outdone by those two minutes in the Residence with Leo and President Bartlet a few weeks ago. He doesn't need to tell C.J. that either.  
  
He observes her silently for a few minutes. She's staring at Simon's name and the dates. He thinks she's trying to think of what to say and wonders if now would be the right time to leave her alone with Simon. He's almost ready to stand when she speaks again.  
  
"Ron?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
Staring at the ground, "I never said thank you."  
  
For a second, he's confused. "For what?" But his mind answers the question a second before she does.  
  
"For staying that night."  
  
They've never talked about this. He'd been content to let it fall into the cobwebs of his history, along with the guilt. His response starts weakly, "You were in pain, I couldn't just." But he trails off, unsure how to justify it, almost a year later.  
  
C.J. is looking him straight in the eye now. "You blame yourself, and you shouldn't. I was falling apart, and I needed . something . to feel alive, maybe."  
  
Feel alive, in the face of death. He'd come to her apartment two days after the funeral to pick up the remaining surveillance equipment. She'd lashed out at him, understandably, and he'd let her - he was a more accessible target than a young punk with a gun. She'd ranted, screamed, cried, and he'd finally wrapped his arms around her, offering whatever comfort he could. And when she'd looked at him and asked for a greater comfort, he couldn't say no.  
  
Still . "It should have been him." Their bodies had moved together slowly, she'd whispered his name - not Simon's - through tears, and after, she'd slept soundly, the first decent night's sleep he suspected she'd had in days. But there was still the guilt, the sense that he betrayed Simon.  
  
"Ron." He looks up at her now, and her eyes are bright but resolute. "It couldn't have been him. He was gone, you were there. And it . it helped."  
  
Her voice drops to a whisper. "And you were in pain too."  
  
He hadn't thought she'd noticed at the time. He's been so concerned with being strong that he thought he'd concealed his own overwhelming hurt. But she was right, and a lot of his guilt had been tied to the fact that she'd helped to relieve his pain, too. He didn't think he could call it a selfless gesture if she'd helped him sleep for the first time in days as well.  
  
Contemplating all of this, Ron finally nods. "Yes, I was. And . it helped me too." This is enough, he thinks; he's devoted as much thought as he's comfortable with to this topic, and he still has another person to visit, another reason to blame himself. He stands. "I should leave, now."  
  
C.J. glances up at him, and holds his gaze. "Thanks for staying." And she's talking about a year ago and also about right now.  
  
He nods curtly. "You're welcome." And he moves away, fading into the deepening blue evening. C.J.'s eyes follow him for a few seconds, and then she takes a deep breath and turns towards Simon, absently stroking the roses lying at his grave.  
  
END 


End file.
